


Jumping Off Cliffs

by KRyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Season/Series 03 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:31:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2104617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn/pseuds/KRyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since taking on his new identity, Reese had determinedly ignored ringing public telephones. His priority had been restoring his partnership with Finch. Once that was accomplished, they'd decide what to do about the Numbers and The Machine. And everything else they were facing.</p>
<p>This is a partner to my earlier story, "Developing Our Wings".  I would suggest reading that one first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jumping Off Cliffs

**Author's Note:**

> This is a partner (from Reese's perspective) to my earlier story, "Developing Our Wings". I would suggest reading that one first. 
> 
> This is a post season 3 finale story, so spoiler alert if you've not gotten that far. 
> 
> Soon to be AU, but I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Thanks again to Tee and JinkyO for beta work.

********************************************************************************************************

_“We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.”_  
\--Kurt Vonnegut

********************************************************************************************************

 

Being cautious had made him too late.

Guilt made him want to put more force behind each blow he delivered. 

Only the impression that Harold hadn't been seriously hurt made him stop before he killed the man in his grasp. He needed to confirm that assumption. Which meant dealing with the piece-of-slime mugger as quickly as possible. 

John Reese clenched both fists in the man's jacket and shoved him hard into the nearest wall. He smiled with grim satisfaction when he actually heard teeth rattle. "How's that feel?" he murmured, his face bare inches from the man's. Without waiting for a reply, Reese jerked the thug forward a few inches then slammed him backward again, smile broadening at the sound of the man's head bouncing against brick. 

While the mugger's eyes practically rolled in their sockets, Reese shifted his grip, planting one hand flat against the thug's chest to keep him upright. Seconds later the muzzle of John's Sig-Sauer was flush against his forehead.

"Now I don't know why you're robbing innocent people," Reese said reasonably, tone soft and mild, undercut with an edge of steel. "Maybe you're just a bad person. Maybe you're a good person fallen on hard times." Reese pressed the gun harder into the man's skin. "I really don't care. Bottom line is, you hurt my friend. I'm guessing you've hurt others." His hand shifted off the man's chest in a blur of motion, racking the slide on the pistol. The muzzle was back on the man's forehead before he could blink. "You're not going to do it anymore. Understood?"

Unable or unwilling to move his head, the man frantically raised and lowered his eyes. 

John thumped the man's chest with the back of his hand. "Good. Glad we understand one another." Reese quickly patted him down, deftly dipping into a pocket and extracting a bulging wallet. Probably Harold's. "I'll return this to its rightful owner." 

He pulled at the strap of the battered computer bag dangling from the man's arm, letting the case slide gently to the pavement. Gun still leveled at the man's head, he took a step back. The mugger dragged in a breath and sagged against the wall. 

John decked him with a right cross. 

Resisting the urge to kick the unconscious body at his feet, Reese set the decocking lever with a flick before shoving the Sig into the holster at his back. Snatching the computer bag from the ground, he slid it onto his shoulder. Then he was on the move, shifting into a fast jog as he headed back toward Harold's last position, four blocks away. 

He thumbed open the billfold as he ran, uttering a curse when he saw the wad of money it contained. Thousands of dollars. No one in their right mind carried around that kind of cash. 

It had to be Harold's. 

He shoved the wallet into his own coat pocket, increased his speed for another block, then slowed to a fast walk. The bars were just starting to close, patrons trickling out onto the streets. As much as John wanted to be at his friend's side as soon as possible, he couldn't just go charging in to the rescue. Someone, or some 'thing', was bound to notice. And 'notice' was something to be avoided these days. Caution at all times was his daily motto, even more so than in the past.

Caution. John's mouth twisted in a snarl. He was heartily sick of that word.

He should have gone with his first instinct and confronted Finch the moment the man had stepped out of his apartment hours earlier. If he had, Harold would be safely tucked away with Bear standing watch, instead of trying to recover from a mugging in a dark, dirty alley. 

"And where the hell _is_ Bear?" Reese muttered under his breath. He'd sent the Malinois with Harold for protection. If this situation didn't qualify as one where the dog should have been front and center, John didn't know what did. 

Definitely another issue to discuss with his recalcitrant partner. He was quickly losing track of just how many there were.

Twenty feet ahead two men exited a hole-in-the-wall bar. Reese slowed his pace even further to keep them in front of him. He estimated he was about a block away from the alley. Luck, such as it was these days, was holding in his favor. 

There were still few pedestrians on this stretch of the street: the two men ahead of him, engaged in a spirited discussion about the Mets; one on the other side of the street heading the same way he was, careful gait suggesting too many drinks at the local watering hole. None a high threat potential, but Reese kept them on his radar. No one behind him. He was still well out of range of the next visible CCTV camera, with no other obvious electronic surveillance in sight. 

Time for a shortcut. Reese walked a few more steps, then slid sideways into a shadowed gap between two buildings. Waited, hand on the grip of his still holstered weapon. No sounds of pursuit. With a satisfied nod he hitched the computer bag closer to his body. 

The gap he had stepped into was barely wide enough for him to move through sideways, the rough brick snagging the fabric of his coat, but it only ran for about 30 feet before ending in a modest-sized courtyard shared by the two buildings. A quick look revealed no cameras, just a wall-mounted light fixture, possibly with a motion detector. John edged the perimeter of the space close to a wall, releasing a huff of breath when he managed to gain the far side of the space without triggering any floodlights. A slightly wider, fairly well-kept passageway gave him access to the street on the opposite side of the block from where he had started.

Sheltered by the wall of the building, he paused for a moment and checked for easy access to his weapon while scanning the dark street. Other than a broken street light, which made this avenue even gloomier than the one he had just been on, nothing set off his internal alarms. Still, Reese shifted the computer bag so it hung against his back, safely out of his way if he ran into anything unexpected. He moved forward onto the sidewalk and quickly headed right. It was the same street he'd been on when he had started out after Harold's assailant. The shortcut had brought him within a few yards of the rear entrance to the alley, just as he had hoped.

It was almost pitch black at this end and he knew from his earlier trips through that the passageway was littered with obstacles. He moved forward quickly but cautiously, recalling a set of over-flowing metal trash cans and a high stack of wooden crates which had spilled to partially fill the passageway. He had almost toppled them in his earlier haste. They'd be on his left... There. He could see the vague outlines of the crates shaped by the light filtering in from the other end. He edged around them. 

Any irritation he'd been feeling toward his partner left him the second he caught sight of the faintly backlit figure on the ground, leaning against the wall. Finch was a dark shape in blurred silhouette, head tilted back, one leg bent at the knee, the other almost flat to the concrete. The tiniest glint of light reflected off his glasses. 

There was no sign of movement. 

Guilt struck hard and fast. He had been a fool to leave before actually examining his friend's injuries. 

He never should have _left_ Harold, period. 

Then suddenly Finch _was_ moving--a lifted arm, hand reaching up toward the back of the neck, head tilting forward, the dark bulk of his body shifting slightly.

Relief pulled Reese toward the older man like a magnet. 

A half-dozen steps and John's foot clipped a bottle, sending it skittering to 'ting' against one of the metal trash cans. Harold's upper body swiveled a stiff fraction in his direction. 

John slowed his pace, trying not to make any other unexpected noises that might spook his friend. Despite Reese's cautious approach, Finch must have heard something that put him in defensive mode. His scrabbling at the ground around him produced a long-necked bottle that he shakily raised in John's direction.

"Are you all right?" Voice automatically dropping into its normal soft, low rasp, the question hung between them before Reese even realized he'd spoken.

The bottle slipped from the older man's hand and thudded on the pavement, the remaining liquid inside spilling out in a soft repetitive chug as John stepped out of the shadows. 

Finch stared at him as though he was looking at a ghost, his astonished eyes wide behind his crooked wire-rim glasses. 

John couldn't help but remember another time and place when Harold's face had held almost the exact same expression. After that last minute rescue, it had been John who had ended their partnership, too disillusioned to realize the mistake he was making. Harold hadn't given up though. He had come to Italy, ostensibly to make sure their Number had his new documentation and could settle easily into the life Finch had arranged, but John knew it wasn't coincidence that he'd found the older man sitting in that cafe at a table set for two. 

John wasn't about to give up either. The circumstances weren't what he'd envisioned for this meeting, but he wasn't about to pass on the opportunity. This was John, coming after Harold. 

Unfortunately, to keep them safe, he'd have to do it as someone else.

Finch suddenly blinked and a familiar greeting started to tumble out of his mouth. "Mr. Re--"

"Sanders," John supplied quickly, glancing toward the lit street before turning his gaze back to Harold, a tight smile of apology curving his lips. He hated having to slide into his new persona so quickly, but there was no telling if they'd be interrupted. Best to begin this with both of them in their new roles. 

"Kyle Sanders," Reese elaborated, making sure he was modulating his voice into the range and diction he used now. "You look like you ran into a little trouble."

To John's surprise, Harold didn't volunteer his own new name in response. In fact he didn't speak at all. The older man just stared up at him, his expression a mix of suspicion and brow-wrinkling confusion.

It was almost like Finch didn't recognize him. That idea stung a little. Granted, his hair was a little longer now, and he had a close cut goatee, but in the dim light of the alley it probably wasn't even noticeable. The intentional change to his voice might be throwing Harold off, especially since he had shifted it so rapidly. 

It was worrisome, though. Harold's mind usually worked at blinding speed, fast on the uptake, faster changing gears. 

Setting the battered computer bag next to the older man's outstretched leg, Reese dropped into a crouch next to him. He ran a hand over the top of Harold's head from front to back, curving his fingers slightly to cup the back of the skull as he traced a downward path to his partner's neck. A blow to the head could account for the older man's slightly dazed behavior, but Reese found no indications of that type of trauma. Finch winced slightly when John touched the tendons near the scars and pins of the fused vertebrae in his neck, and he tensed for a moment when Reese started to unbutton his coat, but surprisingly offered no other protest to the invasion of his personal space. 

Well aware that they were in a vulnerable position, John carried out the rest of his examination quickly: sensitive fingers tracing ribs and sternum, heel of one hand directing firm pressure to the abdomen. He found no obvious signs of broken bones or rigidity that would indicate internal injuries, just a muted groan that suggested Finch had taken a blow to the stomach when John palpated that area. He slid a hand under Harold's coat and rested it on his right shoulder, pleased that there was no sensation of abnormal heat under his palm. Reese had been worried about how the bullet wound had healed. His plan to have Shaw take a second look at it had never come to pass. 

Throughout it all, not a word, just disconcerting bemused silence from the man who had filled John's ear with hours of one-sided conversation during long stakeouts; who loved the sound of the spoken word and could quote entire pages from a dozen Dickens' novels at the drop of a hat.

The high pitched 'whoop whoop' of a squad car siren pierced the late night quiet and Harold stiffened, his gaze flicking toward the end of the alley. John flattened his hand on Finch's chest and pressed lightly, messaging both caution and reassurance.

The siren whooped again, then fell silent. Post bar-time, it was most likely a cop making a stop to check on an erratic driver, but Reese wasn't willing to take any chances. They needed to get moving. 

"Can you stand?" he asked, unable to hide the bite of urgency that prompted the question.

The query drew Harold's attention back to him. Finch's eyes narrowed, the befuddled look of moments earlier gone in a flash. Reese felt the chest under his palm raise abruptly; the sharp hiss of Harold's indrawn breath loud in his ears. Behind the bright eyes, John could almost see all the tiny bits of inconsistent data which had been occupying that sharp mind suddenly fall into place like a completed line of Harold's elegant code. 

Reese felt a surge of regret that their reunion was soured by the need for secrecy and subterfuge.

Finch tensed and started to pull away, but Reese was already shifting his own position, sliding his left arm behind Harold's back, right hand gripping under the older man's arm. Before Finch could mount any real resistance, John had him on his feet, firm grasp steadying an unbalanced waver. 

"Are you sure you're all right?" he pressed.

"Yes...yes I'll be fine. I just--"

"You seem a little unsettled." 

That was an understatement. John didn't think he'd ever seen his partner so rattled. Reese kept one hand locked around Harold's left elbow as he reached down for the computer bag. He released his hold just long enough to slip it onto Finch's left shoulder. 

Harold automatically gripped the strap. "I--"

"We should get you somewhere you can sit down and regroup," John interjected smoothly, cutting off Harold's protest before it could get started. Sliding a hand to the small of Finch's back, he ushered him toward the lit street. 

"I don't think--"

John increased the pressure to keep the man moving and added a bit of reasonable persuasion to his tone. "There's a small diner just around the corner." 

They made it to within a few feet of the opening before Harold balked. A half spin-step pulled him out of John's reach. 

"Stop, please...just stop!" he gasped, both hands palm up toward Reese. 

John started to reach for him, then aborted the motion, letting his hand drop to his side. He retreated a step, hoping to ease the sharp, brittle tension. The older man looked close to panic, and Reese couldn't bring himself to do anything that might cause him any more distress. 

Reese took another step backward, letting Kyle's affectations drop away. "All right," he murmured. 

Finch suddenly took a half step forward. 

"Wait!"

John hesitated, watching intently as the older man dragged in several deep breaths and shakily composed himself. 

Harold's voice was calmer, if a bit tentative, when he finally spoke. "Mr....Sanders, is it?"

John offered a single nod of acknowledgement, unsure if he was going to receive a simple 'thank you and goodbye' or if Finch was going to take the risk and give them what they both needed. 

"I...apologize. My manners are usually better than this." 

Still John waited, determined to let Harold set the pace and direction, noting the slight trembling of the older man's hands as he adjusted his coat and dusted himself off. 

Finch started to extend his hand, then grimaced and offered a nod in greeting instead. "Greg Evans." The careful way Harold pronounced the three syllables suggested he hadn't spoken his new name aloud very often. 

John stepped forward to stand closer, relief mixed with regret as he brought 'Kyle' to the surface again.

"You mentioned a diner. A brief rest before I head home would be a good idea," Harold continued. "Perhaps...perhaps I could buy you a cup of coffee?"

John let his genuine pleasure at that invitation show in a wide smile. "I'd like that."

Instead of the cultured response Reese had grown to expect, Harold answered with a stumbling, "Good...that's... that's good." Finch patted at his coat pocket, obviously checking for his wallet. John suppressed any reaction as the older man stilled and then looked sheepishly up at him. "I'm sorry, I may need to retract that offer. I seem to be missing--"

John had already pulled Harold's wallet from his pocket. Finch took it, opened the billfold, and then shut it abruptly. 

"Looks like you can afford it," John observed blandly, unable to let the opportunity pass to show Harold he had observed the contents, despite his quick actions. 

Finch straightened his coat and Reese suddenly pictured a bird trying to soothe ruffled feathers. He offered an agreeable smile as Harold gestured toward the street and murmured, "Lead on."

*********************

The diner was close. Only a block and a half away. John matched his pace to Harold's, just as he had done so many times before. The older man's gait was a little slower than Reese remembered, the sideways body-rock his limp manifested more pronounced, but he moved steadily forward, slightly easing John's concerns. Finch was uneasy, his head twitching fractionally toward every sound. Reese edged a little closer, felt the faintest drag of fabric as their coat sleeves brushed on the next step. 

A small grin curved his lips at the contact, and for one of the few times in the past weeks, John was thankful that Kyle had such an outgoing personality. Reese didn't have to fight the visible signs of pleasure he felt at simply being at his friend's side once more.

This was the closest he had been to the man for six weeks. The last time they'd been together they'd been....

_Hurrying down the Library steps as fast as Harold could manage, not knowing if they even had time to make it out the door into the tunnel. John unwilling to let Harold go off wounded and alone. Arguing his point even as Harold was shaking his head saying it was too risky, that it was time to take the slim chance they'd been given to walk away. John countering with an offer of a temporary separation, a week, two, to let the heat die down. Harold grim, worn, murmuring in a voice almost too soft to be heard that they'd fought the battle, but lost the war. John insisting he didn't believe Harold was ready to give up. Harold closing himself off, voice suddenly cold and sharp and arrogantly impersonal. Mr. Finch in control. It was his project, his decision, and he was ending it._

_Harold trying to hand him Bear's leash._

_John refusing, giving the Malinois the command to stay with Finch. Adding the hand signal to 'Guard'._

_Not a word spoken as they'd parted on the street a few blocks later. Just a single look back._

John's step faltered at the memory. An anxious hitch of breath from Harold had Reese quickly resuming a casual, loose-limbed stride. 

The last time they'd been together Finch had shut him down with harsh words. Ended their partnership. Pushed him out of his life. 

And Reese had understood why. 

Harold protected the people he cared about, no matter what it cost him personally. 

What he had forgotten, was that John felt the same way. 

***********************

As their destination came into view, Harold's steps didn't slow, but John could sense his apprehension. Bright lights glowed through a wide expanse of windows, a shining beacon to attract late night business. A half-dozen patrons were seated at the long front counter. Reese shared his friend's reluctance. Planting themselves dead center in a spotlight wasn't his preferred choice either, but he wanted to get Harold off his feet and a hot drink in his hand. The diner was the closest option available. 

Making sure he had Kyle's engaging persona front and center, Reese pushed the front door inward. The 40-ish waitress behind the counter brightened visibly as John paused, took a casual glance around and stepped inside, Finch a silent shadow behind him. 

The waitress quickly dried her hands on a towel and hurried through an opening in the front counter. "Hey, Hon', welcome!" she called out with a wide smile. "Coffee's hot and the pie's fresh."

John's answering smile was just as broad, "Sounds, great." He moved a step forward, angling to the left to allow the door to close behind Harold. "We'll--"

Her gaze slid past him, eyes widening in surprise when she caught sight of Finch. "Oh my Lord, what happened to you? Are you all right?" The woman gasped. "Did you get mugged? I swear we've had at least half-a dozen attacks around here in just the past few weeks. I keep telling the boss that we need more security than one old camera, but does he listen? No. Do you want me call the police? There's no guarantee they'll show up. They've had their hands full, what with the crime rate going up all over town, but--"

"Thank you, but I'm fine," Harold dissembled, looking mortified. "Just took a fall. Stumbled over a break in the pavement, I think. Should have been paying more attention. This gentleman," Harold gestured at John, "was kind enough to help me up. I thought I might buy him a cup of coffee as a 'thank you'."

Her expression was skeptical as her gaze swept Finch from head to toe. The unforgiving fluorescent lights gave Reese his first good look at his friend, making it obvious why the waitress seemed skeptical about Finch's 'just took a tumble' story. Harold's hair was sticking out in odd directions. The metal frames of his glasses were bent and sat crooked on his face. The knees of his pants were damp, and his dark blue coat was spotted with stains front and back, and on the lower portion of both sleeves. 

Fortunately, whatever doubts the waitress had, she kept to herself. She gestured toward the rear of the diner. 

"You might want to take one of the booths in the back," she suggested. "Seating's a little more comfortable and it's quieter. Most of the late-nighters tuck in up front. There's a restroom just off to the left. I'll give you a few extra minutes before I come back to take your order."

Eager to give the woman something other than Harold's questionable explanation and disheveled appearance to think about, John turned on the charm. "We appreciate it," he said warmly, offering a slightly flirtatious wink. 

She grinned and offered a suggestive wiggle of her hips as she moved back to her position behind the counter. John kept an 'ear' on her as she chattered with the customers at the stools, refilling beverages while she pitched dessert and the daily special. None of her patrons seemed inordinately interested in them, but Reese fixed each of their positions in his head, wary of discounting any potential danger. 

He glanced at Harold, a nod signaling him to move ahead. Finch's slightly narrowed eyes suggested that he too had noted the older model surveillance camera mounted on the wall holding the plates behind the front counter. The steady green light above the lens indicated it was in active mode, focused on the old-fashioned cash register. If it was only feeding to an on-site recording device, it wouldn't be difficult to tamper with the tapes later. 

The presence of the camera was a reminder of the need to stay in character. Reese deliberately relaxed his shoulders, let his arms swing a fraction more with each step as he followed Harold toward the booths the waitress had suggested. Finch seemed to be trying to keep his limp to a minimum, probably in an effort to be less memorable. When they reached the back area where the windows transitioned into a solid wall, Reese noted a slight relaxing of the older man's stiff posture. Pleased with the more secure surroundings himself, John nodded when Harold gestured toward the restroom. 

While he wasn't happy to have the man out of his sight, John knew Harold needed a few minutes to clean up and pull himself together. 

Still, he couldn't help but feel a pang of loss as the restroom door closed behind his friend.

***************************

While Reese regretted many of his actions during his stint as a CIA operative, he still valued the skills he had learned and perfected. His life had depended on his ability to assess a situation or a mark, rapidly alter a plan in the face of unexpected events, and to pull the trigger when necessary. All while maintaining whatever cover role he'd been assigned--because if you blew your cover, you were likely to wind up dead. 

He'd had 'Kyle Sanders' nearly perfect within a few days. Clothing, voice, body language and attitude were what people noticed and remembered. He frequently wore suits, but they were basic off-the-rack colors and fabrics, tailored only to the extent that they fit well enough and hid the weapon he still carried. The permit in his wallet didn't quite match the make and model of his Sig-Sauer, but the paper itself was legitimate, and on the rare occasions someone detected or glimpsed the gun in its holster, well, more urban professionals were carrying these days given the rising crime rate. He was just one of the many. 

He passed on a tie except for the occasional meeting when it was necessary to impress a client. He was still leery of finding himself in a situation where it could be used as a weapon against him. He had added the short-trimmed goatee and let his hair grow longer. Styled, it projected successful businessman. 

The alterations in his voice and speech patterns were the biggest challenges to keep in character. He occasionally slipped back into his old lower, raspy tone as he had done back in the alley. His new voice was pitched closer to mid-range, colored with a hint of a mid-western accent.

Kyle was easy going, relaxed, charming, quick with a smile or a laugh. He was attentively serious in regard to business dealings, eager to shake a stranger's hand. He didn't stalk, he sauntered. He didn't guard his personal space. 

He wouldn't scope out a room checking for vantage points, exits, possible aggressors, or a seat that put his back to a wall. He'd simply walk in, choose a place to sit at random, plunk himself down and focus his attention on the menu. 

Reese had been _more_ than good at role playing. It was the reason he was still alive. The challenge was staying consistent and remembering who you really were under all the layers of subterfuge. That meant keeping your head in the game and emotions in check. Working the Numbers with Harold had kept those skills sharp. Their current life-or-death situation had honed them further. Making a mistake was not an option. 

Especially with Harold now in the mix. 

'Kyle' was firmly in place as John walked through diner's back room and slid into a booth close to the rear. He angled himself slightly sideways, letting his left leg extend a little into the aisle. Plucking the menu out of its holder at the end of the table, he pretended to study it. 

The rear exit had already been noted and he was confident he could monitor the door at the edge of his peripheral vision. Reese wished he had an excuse to clear it for a fast retreat, but it wouldn't be in character. The front area of the diner was in full view with a simple glance across the top of the menu. No one had come in or gone out since they'd entered. Situation stable at least for the moment. 

It appeared that he and Finch would have the room to themselves, at least initially. John didn't see any additional electronic surveillance owned by the diner, but he was well aware that a cell phone in someone's hand or pocket was potentially a direct line to ears that they wanted to avoid. The lack of any other patrons sharing their space gave at least the illusion of privacy. 

Reese glanced down at the menu, and abruptly realized he was restlessly tapping his finger against the laminated edge. 

Clearly, Harold wasn't the only one that needed a few minutes to get his head on straight and emotions under control. 

He laid the menu on the tabletop, shifted a little on the bench, and let his shoulders slouch a bit more. Letting his gaze drift around the back room, he tried to look like a man without a care in the world.

Underneath the subterfuge, his mind and emotions were churning. 

He felt like he was standing at the edge of a steep drop. He was ready to jump--back into their partnership, back into what would probably be a fight just to stay alive. Yet caution dictated taking a step back--playing it safe, maybe even walking away.

Caution be damned. It hadn't done them any good tonight. 

*********************

When the text message had come in on his work cell phone, he'd had no idea where it was going to lead. He hadn't recognized the originating number, but that wasn't unusual. He received calls and texts from potential new clients all the time. The content of the message had been unusual. Two letters: 'GE'.

The text could have been sent in error, but instinct had screamed it was no mistake. The letters had a specific meaning to him. They were the initials of Harold's new identify. 

John had immediately tried returning the call, only to find that the phone number sitting in his inbox didn't exist. 

Warning klaxons blaring in his head, Reese had remained at his desk, filling out the last of the forms on a project he was handling, while his mind leapt from one scenario to another. Warning or call for help? Threat or outreach? Friend or foe? Focusing on the technology behind the call had helped narrow the options as to who might have sent it. 

Finch had been at the top of his list. Harold had the knowledge and skills, but not the details of John's new alias--unless he had discovered that Reese knew his. It was possible that Finch had caught him snooping and had decided to turn the tables. But it hadn't seemed like something his partner would do. Harold would have known that the cryptic nature of the message would have sent John into overdrive. Unless it had been a call for help...yet it hadn't made any sense for Finch to reach out to him and then disable the number. 

Cryptic had fit Root's operating style though, and she wouldn't have been averse to rattling John''s nerves. She had the ability, knowledge of their new identities, and if she was still in contact with the Machine...

The Machine using the text to make contact had been an alarming thought. In the past, it had only contacted him to give him a Number. Since taking on his new identity, Reese had determinedly ignored ringing public telephones. His priority had been restoring his partnership with Finch. Once that was accomplished, they'd decide what to do about the Numbers and The Machine. And everything else they were facing.

If Samaritan and Decima were behind it, it could be trap. He thought he had been careful in his surveillance of his friend, but it was possible that his activities had been noted. The text message might be intended to get John to lead them to Finch.

The possibility of either AI having sent the message had prompted John to gather his things and end his work day. He had stopped at a storage unit he had rented and swapped cars for his less conspicuous personal vehicle. Taking a circuitous route to Harold's apartment building, constantly checking the rear-view mirrors for any sign of a tail, had him pulling into a parking space just in time to see the older man and the Malinois head inside their new home. 

Other than a nightly ten minute walk to 'water' Bear, there was only one evening each week when Harold left his apartment after eight at night, and that was on Thursday when he worked an overnight shift at the hospital. Caution kept Reese from revealing his presence when Finch had broken pattern. 

It had been a few hours shy of midnight when Harold had exited his apartment building and climbed into a waiting taxi. He'd had the computer bag he carried for work slung over his shoulder. When the cab had headed away from the hospital instead of toward it, John had followed discretely in his own vehicle.

After five minutes, Harold's cab had stopped at a taxi stand, disgorged its passenger, taken on another and pulled away. Finch had walked several blocks before entering a small restaurant which served the area's late night clientele. Reese had been watching for a spot to park and almost missed the older man exiting the building less than three minutes later. Harold had walked four more blocks, then hailed another cab outside a bustling, noisy bar. For the next hour, John had trailed his devious partner across the city in a zig-zag of twists and turns, starts and stops.

Every protective urge Reese possessed had screamed at him to stop whatever nonsense Finch was up to when his friend's last cab ride dropped him at the fringes of this neighborhood. But he had chosen to listen to the voice of experience honed by years of covert activity--"Don't jump before you look, and always, always have an exit strategy". 

Keeping tabs on his aggravating partner, who had been purposefully walking further into what Reese considered patently unsafe territory, John had parked the car in the first open spot. Tagging its location in his head, Reese slid through the shadows in pursuit. 

Based on his evasive behavior, he had concluded that Finch had plans to meet someone. Root was a worrying possibility. Reese still didn't completely trust the woman--especially when it came to Harold and his safety. She was one of the few candidates John could imagine Finch taking the risk for, especially if she'd dangled the proper bait. She had done it before.

There were some seedy little bars in the vicinity where a stranger's presence wouldn't be noted. John had expected Harold to head for one, so he had been surprised when the older man had come to a halt several blocks away from the nearest open establishment. John had tucked himself into the shadow of a building, watching as Finch fiddled with the strap of his computer bag. To the casual observer it would have appeared as though the strap had broken or the end clasp had released, and he had simply stopped to fix it. But Reese had recognized the ploy for what it was--Harold had been checking his immediate surroundings. 

John had done the same, making note of the few older model cars that were parked along the curbs and the large commercial dumpster just a few feet beyond where Finch had stopped. The aging brick buildings on both sides of the street were packed tightly together, the only significant gap created by an alley opening at about mid-block on the opposite side of the street. 

By the time he'd looked back, Harold had disappeared.

Reese had almost broken cover, but his training had held. He had ignored the brief surge of panic and focused on the task at hand. Finch was a master at losing a tail, but John hadn't thought he'd been spotted, and there'd been no other obvious threats present. John's eyes hadn't been off him for more than a few seconds. Gone to ground, then. The dumpster had offered the best option for cover. The container was positioned a couple feet away from the building wall it paralleled. 

He'd been tempted to march over and pound on the dumpster to see what shook loose. 

Instead, he had moved to a position where he could observe. Keeping a watchful eye on the dumpster, Reese had backtracked to a spot where could cross to the other side of the street without being noticed. A stealthy climb up an old metal fire escape had gotten to John to the flat rooftop of the two-story building directly across from where he suspected his elusive partner was hiding. A quick look down over the short wall that bordered the roof had confirmed it. 

Harold had tucked himself into the narrow space behind the dumpster, at the end of the container that gave him a clear view of the alley opening.

A stake-out, not a meeting. The untraceable text message _had_ to have been sent by The Machine. But was Finch the Number, or was he stalking one? 

Reese had been glad Harold had been well out of reach at that moment, otherwise he _would_ have chanced drawing attention and throttled the man for the risk he was taking.

John had kept eyes on his partner and moved to the corner of the roof. The building formed one side of the alley. A quick glance down confirmed that the passageway ran the full width of the block, the rear end opening to another street. The strategist in Reese had been relieved that it wasn't a dead end, but concerned by the lack of light. The illumination from the single streetlight near Harold's position only penetrated the darkness of the alley for about 40 feet. The rest of the passage was dark and filled with odd shadows which suggested the presence of items that could either obstruct pursuit or provide a position to hide. A good place for an ambush. 

Once he'd noted what looked like a fast route down--a set of handrails for a fire escape ladder at the far end of the roof--John had settled in to watch and wait. On high alert, attuned to every uneasy twitch in his partner's body language and minute changes in the immediate environment, Reese had been scanning for threats the split second after Harold abruptly stilled, his gaze fixed on something to his right. He'd had to lean slightly over the wall, risking exposure himself, to pinpoint the source--a man moving furtively along the sidewalk on his side of the street.

When Finch had moved part way into the open to observe the man who had slipped into the alley, John's first instinct had been to try to take the target out from above. The possibility that the man was a Number had made him hesitate. Suspicious behavior didn't necessarily make the man a perpetrator. Deciding a disabling shot was nearly impossible due to the darkness of the alley and his current vantage point, Reese had headed across the roof to the ladder. He'd had one leg over the side before he realized his mistake. The aging metal structure was broken off just a few feet from the top. He had spent precious time finding an alternative route down that would allow him to approach the alley from the rear. He hadn't wanted his partner between him and the target. 

He'd lost sight of Harold in the interim.

The _lack_ of caution on Finch's part had him acting faster than Reese had anticipated. John had hoped his partner's instincts for self-preservation had increased during their time apart. He should have remembered Harold's tendency to run toward trouble, instead of away from it. The damage had already been done before Reese was in a position to help.

A figure had bolted from the rear of the alley and headed up the street with what looked like Finch's computer bag thumping against his side. Reese had pulled his weapon, but had held off firing. Even in this neighborhood a gunshot would be noticed. The police would respond, searching and asking questions of anyone they found. They couldn't risk the chance of discovery. 

Checking on his partner had been higher on his priority list at any rate. John had quickly worked his way through the dark, cluttered alley. He had pulled up short at the point where the crates had spilled into the passage. Less than 20 feet beyond, Finch had been shifting from his hands and knees to sit, and seemed focused on getting his breath back. 

Reese had wanted to go to him. Wanted hands-on reassurance that Harold was all right. 

But prudence had also dictated that he track down Finch's assailant and retrieve whatever the man had stolen, in case it was something they couldn't afford to have out in the open. The thief already had a head start, so John had hovered in the shadows just long enough to assure himself that Harold appeared shaken, but not seriously injured. Then he had gone after the man who'd hurt him, grimly pleased that he'd be teaching a lesson instead of fitting the thug for a body bag. 

*********************

John's conscience chose that moment to flash the image of Finch, motionless against the alley wall, into his head. 

He had been lucky that he hadn't returned to find a corpse.

Reese's stomach clenched at the reminder that he needed to be honest with himself, if he was hoping for honesty from his partner. He should at least have called out to Finch when he'd first found him, or taken those few extra minutes to actually check his injuries before going after his attacker. Why hadn't he?

He'd been afraid. 

It wasn't an easy admission. 

Harold had been adamant that they were 'done' when they'd parted ways, so he'd had no idea how Finch would react to his sudden appearance. He had feared that if the thief was a Number, Harold would have found a way to persuade him to go after the man--if for no other reason than to stop him before he hurt someone else. John knew himself well enough to admit that once he had satisfied himself Finch was stable, he would probably have given in to that request. 

He had been afraid his stubborn partner would have been long gone before he returned. 

If Finch still believed that staying out of each other's lives was the only safe option, the man would have disappeared like smoke. And this time, he'd make sure Reese would never find him. 

Losing Harold again simply wasn't an option that John could live with. 

Like Shaw, Reese had been shocked to turn around that day they'd returned from D.C. to find Finch was no longer behind them. John was still kicking himself for not anticipating that Harold would pull a disappearing act. He had seen the fear in Finch's eyes when it seemed his own creation had manipulated them, heard the despair and horror in his voice when he had pleaded with Reese not to kill the Congressman. When Shaw had taken a bullet, the guilt weighing at Harold had been palpable. 

John knew what happened when your personal demons woke and stared you straight in the eye. He should have known Harold would take the first opportunity to distance himself from them. 

Not because he was abandoning them, but because he was trying to keep them safe. 

In Finch's mind he was a vulnerability that their enemies could exploit: no use in a firefight and too likely to slow them down if they had to make another run for it. And while they were all targets the minute Samaritan came on line, 'Harold Finch' was at the top of the list. 

The week he'd been missing had been a nightmare for John. He had worked the Numbers because he had known it was what Finch would want, but every free minute was spent searching for a clue to where the older man had gone to ground. He had checked every safe house, hotel, park bench, and dog park they'd ever used or visited, but they were all as empty of any trace as the Library, where Harold's computers were gathering dust. 

He had held to the conviction that Finch would reappear when he was ready. Shaw never voiced her opinion about Harold's absence, but there had been times when Reese had caught a glimpse of dark speculation in her eyes. John understood that Hersch's betrayal was still too fresh in her mind, her relationship with them still too new to reject the idea that Finch had abandoned them, so he hadn't called her on it. It had irritated John though, that she'd so quickly accepted Root's assertion that they had more important things to do than find him. 

To Reese, nothing had been more important. 

Then, less than a handful of hours after they'd reconnected, he had been forced to watch Harold trade himself for Grace Hendricks. A position they never would have been in if John could have kept her safe. 

He had told Finch to stay alive, that he'd be coming for him. And he had tried, but every Decima lead had produced nothing except a dead body. Not knowing what his partner was going through preyed on his mind, and he cursed himself for not having killed Greer when he had encountered the man in Ernest Thornhill's offices nearly a year earlier. 

When they'd finally found Decima's lair, Finch was already gone. The echoing, cavernous unfinished office floor, furnished with only two metal mesh chairs and an unlit wide-screen monitor, shouted his obvious failure. When the monitor had burst to life and he'd seen Harold 'unveiled' like some criminal, the anger Reese had been holding at bay erupted. His mission was clear and there would be no more deviations. 

He had never experienced a moment of fear like the one he'd felt when the ground rocked under his feet as the old Post Office exploded. He had followed the advancing wave of Decima agents as they cut through Vigilance's ranks, hoping they'd lead him to Greer. It had been a desperate hope that Peter Collier would have kept all of his 'defendants' together and that Finch would be somewhere nearby. To arrive on the rooftop and find his friend at gunpoint had almost been a relief. His shot had come too late to prevent Harold from taking a bullet, but at least he was still alive, not buried under tons of rubble. 

If Reese wanted to, he could have recalled every step of their escape from the rooftop. He had been trained to retain every detail of a mission. But all that had been important at the time was getting Finch to safety. The Library had been his destination and he hadn't let anything stand in their way. His hyper-vigilance hadn't faltered until they were beyond the metal gate and he was settling Harold in his chair, Bear nestling into his bed at the older man's feet. 

John knew from personal experience that shoulder wounds could be messy and complicated. There were too many bones and tendons, muscles, nerves and major blood vessels packed into that part of the body. A bullet tearing through the brachial artery could be fatal in minutes. Fortunately Finch had escaped the worst case scenario. The wound had been within Reese's ability to tend and bandage, at least temporarily.

He had actually been more worried about the exhausted fugue Harold seemed to be caught up in. Finch hadn't uttered a word until Reese had sat him upright in the chair. John had caught the first faint glimmer of the older man's spirit when he had made a sardonic comment about Reese's choice of careers. John's intentionally insulting response had tipped them further toward normalcy. 

Then Root had called. 

The Library was compromised. They had to get out. Disappear. 

In the near-panicked flurry of gathering up their new identities and destroying their old ones, there had barely been time to shut down Harold's system and grab John's 'go' bag. No time to fill each other in on what had transpired while they were apart. No time to plan. No time to explain. Only time for words that further separated them. 

Harold had been in no condition to make any long-term decisions that day. All he could see was the immediate danger, and that there was a way to get Reese free of it. 

John straightened a little in his seat. He hadn't wanted to risk a confrontation earlier and risk Finch slipping away, but now he would take the chance. He had a lot to tell his friend, even if it had to be buried within a casual conversation between two 'strangers'.

************************************

Their waitress arrived, and Reese spent a few minutes in meaningless conversation and innocent flirting to keep the woman from asking questions about his still absent companion. When Finch finally exited the restroom, 'Kyle's' attention was still centered on the waitress, but John's focus was on the man limping down the aisle toward him.

On the surface, Harold looked pretty good for a man who had been mugged less than an hour earlier. He had tamed his hair enough that he no longer looked lop-sided and had managed to realign the frames of his glasses. He had his bag in his left hand and carried his folded coat draped over his right forearm. Dressed in what most companies would consider 'office casual'--chino trousers, v-neck sweater, button-down collared shirt--he could pass for any average middle-class worker, maybe just off a late-night shift, stopping to have a cup of coffee or a bite to eat before heading home. 

It was what Reese noted in the details and what was _missing_ that had him worried. Although he seemed to be making an effort to down-play it, Harold's limp and the stiffness in his body were easy to see. While that could be a manifestation of worsening aches and pains from the mugging, John feared that wasn't the whole picture. 

Finch seemed to have slipped into a persona that had aspects of the self-effacing man who had droned away in a little cubicle at IFT: quiet, contained, unremarkable, gaze focused just below eye level to avoid the possibility of making eye contact. 

But even that Harold had had a spark of life in him. This one...

From the quick examination he done in the alley, John knew that Harold hadn't been wearing a suit, but it was still a shock to see him without the tailored clothing. The v-neck style of the sweater paid homage to the structured waistcoats Finch had frequently worn, but the loose fit of the garment seemed to swamp him. No tie. No brightly colored pocket squares. No real color at all. The shirt, sweater and pants he wore were almost the same hue of blue-gray, halfway between medium and dark in value, creating a monotone effect. Just one step above invisible. 

As Harold slid awkwardly into the booth, tucking his folded coat and computer bag close to his side on the seat, John mourned what the strain and upheaval of the past months had taken from his friend. Reese knew that he himself had more stress 'tells' than he had when they'd begun their partnership. There was additional silver in his hair, a few more lines around his mouth and eyes. 

But those were nothing compared to the evidence Harold bore. The deep creases at the corners of his eyes certainly weren't laugh lines, and the ones around his mouth were significantly more pronounced. The eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses were pale and bloodshot, the dark shadows under them signaling long days and fitful nights. While the older man didn't look quite as grim and exhausted as he had when they'd parted, he still looked worn. He carried himself like a man resigned to bear an impossible burden to the end of his days. 

He looked...diminished. 

Small. 

There was something so fundamentally wrong with that image that Reese had to struggle to stay in character. His resolve crystallized in that moment. This separation would end. They would make a new beginning tonight. 

John pushed the menu to the side and turned to the waitress. "Just something to drink, I think." 

He glanced at Finch who confirmed the choice with a nod. Reese almost changed his mind and suggested something to eat--he could tell the older man had lost weight--but recalling how little appetite _he'd_ had after being punched in the gut, he decided against it.

"Hot tea," John requested with a quick smile to the waiting woman. "Sencha Green if you have it. One sugar." At Harold's start of surprise, John casually explained, "Someone I used to know drank it all the time. I've grown to appreciate it."

Harold tersely placed his own order; voice only a few decibels above a murmur. "Coffee. Black." 

Amused and oddly touched by the older man's choice, John's right eyebrow twitched upward just a fraction as the waitress bustled away.

"I still have some work to do when I get home," Harold responded defensively. "I'll need the caffeine."

John studied Finch for a moment, frowning slightly. Hadn't Harold had enough for tonight? What other trouble was he planning to entertain? 

"Seems a little late to be crunching numbers," Reese observed pointedly.

Finch froze in the process of unwrapping his setting of silverware, giving Reese his first good look at the raw scrapes and cuts on the heels and palms of his friend's hands. Harold had obviously cleaned them, but some of the injuries were still oozing tiny droplets of blood and fluid. The sight of the wounds made John angry--at Finch for putting himself in the position to get hurt, at his assailant for causing the harm, at himself for being too late to prevent the attack. 

Not trusting himself to speak, he ignored the wary gaze Harold had turned on him and nodded curtly toward the battered computer bag.

"Yes...yes it is," Finch answered, his vocal stumble a sure sign he'd received Reese's subtle messages of disapproval. "But in my line of work there are always a lot of details to track down." He offered a casual wave of his hand as he set his silverware aside. "Not enough hours in the day. A common enough complaint."

Harold was definitely still not himself, or he wouldn't have made such an ill-considered reply. He had generously supplied an opening for another line of attack, but Reese didn't want to take it just yet. Silence was a very effective interrogation technique. It could make the subject more nervous, or lull them into complacency. John was hoping for the latter, so he gave a small nod in agreement. He reached for his own set of utensils and occupied himself with the task of unwrapping them. 

An awkward, unbalanced silence stretched between them. Reese kept his posture loose, maintaining an air of ease and nonchalance. Finch was like a bird on wire: alternately tensing and relaxing as it struggled to maintain its balance in unpredictable winds. As John watched the older man's fingers teasing out the wrinkles in his napkin with jerky strokes, images from another time, another diner, flashed through Reese's mind. There had been an imbalance between them then too, neither sure of the other, both wary and cautious. Events had brought them full circle. 

The tension abated slightly when the waitress quickly returned with their drinks, both men seemingly focused on the simple tasks of preparing their beverages. Harold had just raised his cup to his lips when John nudged the conversation forward.

"So what kind of work do you do?"

Other than a slight movement that caused the coffee in his cup to slosh against the rim, Finch gave no indication that he was surprised or worried by the question. He took a moment to blow across the surface of the liquid, took a small sip as if testing the temperature, then took a longer one. Reese waited patiently. The way Harold answered would set the tone and direction for the rest of their discussion. 

"I work at one of the local hospitals. Medical records and billing." 

John took a sip of his tea, relieved. Finch had opted for the truth.

"Sounds like that would be a pretty 8 to 5 kind of schedule." 

"You'd think so. It's essentially electronic paper pushing," Harold said, his tone dismissive. "The physicians' offices and insurance carriers want everything in a digital format now. We're a bit short staffed at the moment so things pile up quickly. There are always extra shifts to pick up. Plus, we're in the process of digitizing older paper records for one of the HMOs. That takes a lot of time. It's pretty tedious work."

Finch picked up his coffee again, hesitated. Reese let his attention drift from his friend to monitor the entrance to the restaurant and the patrons at the front counter. He almost missed Harold's quiet confession. 

"When it comes to saving a life or losing one though, having the right information at your fingertips can make all the difference. I've...missed crucial details in the past. Didn't read between the lines. People suffered because of it. I'm exceedingly careful now with everything I do. I don't want to put anyone else at risk."

The eyes that watched John over the rim of the coffee cup were filled with guilt and regret. Reese understood those emotions. He bore his own share of responsibility for their losses and mistakes. However he was pragmatic enough to understand that the mess they were in now couldn't be traced to just one man's actions. 

Harold might have built The Machine, but he wasn't omniscient. Like anyone else, he had made the best decisions he could with the information he had on hand. He couldn't control the decisions and actions others had made, or predict an agenda which was hidden behind years of deceit. Wishing his friend would accept that and release some of the burden he was carrying, John tried to let some of what he was feeling show in his own eyes. 

But his message didn't seem to penetrate. Finch broke eye contact, mouth firming in a frown. Setting his cup down, he offered an awkward shrug. "I'm used to long hours in front of the keyboard, so it's no trouble putting in extra time at home." 

Wondering how he was going to get through to the man, Reese stared down into his tea. 

"And of course, I make double for overtime," Harold added, obviously trying to lighten the mood. 

"Any little bit extra helps in this economy," John responded with a nod. He appreciated Harold's attempt to maintain their cover, but he was hard pressed to keep from simply speaking his mind. Reese didn't know what had prompted Finch to try to help the Numbers again, but the way Harold had gone about it evidenced a degree of desperation which concerned him. 

"Lots of people struggling these days," he continued, trying to keep his irritation at Harold's disregard for his own safety out of his tone. "Everyone is stretched pretty thin. Sometimes it leads them to make bad decisions. Puts them in situations they have no business being in. Being _careful_ isn't always enough."

"We all have to deal with the consequences of our own actions." Harold patted the computer bag at his side. "In any case, I appreciate your...assistance. There are few 'Good' Samaritans on the streets these days."

John automatically tensed at the reference. Harold was sticking to the 'script', but he had obviously picked up on Reese's inference that he knew precisely why Finch had been out and about tonight. He knew John wasn't happy about the risks he'd taken. Harold wasn't going to go so far as to admit it though, and wasn't adverse to offer a subtle warning reminder of his own in response to the covert scolding. 

Even off his game, Finch was very good at this. Silently, Reese conceded the point and relaxed, letting Kyle's loose, affable persona surface again. 

"Just glad I was in the neighborhood," John said, offering a casual shrug.

"You didn't say what brought you down here so late at night." 

Harold's tone was perfectly casual, the question appropriate for two strangers. Reese read his intent clearly--Finch wanted off the hot seat, and he wanted John on it. 

John rewarded his query with a wide, easy smile, fully in character. It was the opening he had been waiting for. He couldn't have planned it better. Harold might believe he had shifted the focus of the inquisition, but the older man had no idea where Reese was about to take their conversation. 

"I'm in real estate," he responded, reaching into an inner pocket of his coat to withdraw a business card case. "Commercial as well as residential." John plucked out a card and held it out toward Harold. 

Crisp white card stock. The name and logo of a well-known firm embossed in one corner. Kyle Sanders name, address, email, office and cell phone numbers all detailed precisely.

It was a plausible opening for a means of contact. Realtors gave their cards away to everyone they met. If it was discovered in Harold's possession, few would give it a second glance. 

Finch looked like he wanted to reach out and take it, but he kept his hands folded in his lap. 

John laid the card on the table between them. 

"My job takes me all over Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs," he continued smoothly. "Real estate sales is a fairly cut-throat business, so I like to keep an eye out for opportunities someone else might not see. For example, a lot of clients are becoming more interested in the safety of the neighborhoods where they're considering making a purchase or renting. I have a contact in the NYPD who keeps me in the loop on crime statistics, the placement of new CCTV cameras, changes in police staffing in certain areas. I still like to check things out for my own peace of mind. Particularly at night, since things often look and feel different in the dark. Realtors tend to work practically a 24/7 schedule anyway.

"It's taken some work to get established, but it's starting to pay off. Most of what I've handled so far would be considered small change by my competition. I'm ready to take on some bigger challenges."

Reese paused for just a moment. Time to jump.

"Right now I'm in the process of checking out properties for a new client I hope to land. He likes the unusual. Prefers older places with character, but modern enough to handle the demands of today's technology. Good storage. Solid built-in book cases."

Harold's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Reese pretended not to notice. 

"He's a very private person, so security is a must. He also wants to be able to come and go without being the object of gossip by a lot of nosy neighbors. A _sanctuary trompe l'oeil_ is how he would put it.

"And it needs to be pet friendly." 

Harold paled.

**************************************************************

Their waitress chose that moment to wander back to them, checking to see if they needed a refill. Finch gave her a stiff nod, but wouldn't meet John's eyes. He stared down at the tabletop, his expression unreadable.

Reese had taken the plunge, but Harold's reaction didn't tell him what he'd find when he reached bottom. Had he given Finch enough information so that he'd see that resuming their partnership was a real possibility? That John accepted the risks? Did he understand Reese was offering the same 'purpose' that Harold had given him 3 years earlier?

Everything hinged on Finch having dealt with his own demons. Reese understood the older man better than Finch thought he did: responsibility drove him, failure and guilt haunted him. John had known that combination of imperatives would resurface once Harold had a chance to find some perspective. 

_"Do not press a desperate foe too hard."_ Sun Tzu's wise words were as appropriate for friend, as for foe. Reese was intimately familiar with the tactical principles the man had espoused. _The Art of War_ had been required reading in the Corps and the CIA.

When they'd separated, Harold had needed time to find his balance. So although it tore him apart, he had let Finch walk away--let him believe that John had bought into his assertions that their work was over. 

For Reese, the mission had just begun. 

Since they'd parted, he had executed the most intricate surveillance op he'd ever handled. Unwilling to let Root or The Machine dictate their futures, Reese had managed to get a look at Finch's new ID when his partner had dumped the contents of his envelope onto the table before they'd fled the Library. Armed with a name and address, John had built an accurate picture of Greg Evans' life. 

Within a week Reese knew where Finch worked and what hours he'd be safe within the hospital's walls; had a list of the stores he was frequenting for groceries and Bear's dog food; and had picked out numerous vantage points from which he could observe his friend's apartment and activities without being seen.

It had almost been like working a Number--minus sorely missed backup--except he was far more careful than he had ever been in the past. If they were to _have_ a future, staying off Samaritan's radar was critical. 

Keeping Finch in the dark to his activities had been just as important and nearly as difficult.

A new identity hadn't lessened Finch's paranoia. Observation had revealed the man was being very careful: keeping his head down, sticking to routines, blending in. While it had pained Reese to see his friend conceal himself within such an unremarkable existence, he hadn't made the mistake of presuming that the man didn't know exactly what was going on all around him. Harold had always had the best home-made 'toys' when it came to counter-surveillance. Flying under the radar didn't mean he had abandoned that hobby.

With his service vest granting entry to almost any establishment, Bear accompanied Harold almost everywhere--which was what Reese had intended, but it had meant keeping a distance so the dog's keen senses didn't detect him. 

Fortunately, John's new job had provided both the resources and flexibility he'd needed to keep tabs on his friend and start planning for their future. A career in real estate had been a surprisingly good cover. Kyle Sanders had come to New York after a successful career in Chicago, complete with glowing recommendations. The firm he was working for was well established, with multiple offices in all five boroughs. 

The firm's resources offered each agent full support staff, so ninety percent of the mundane drudgery of paper pushing was done for him. It was his job to land the clients. A solid working knowledge of the properties available, and those that might soon become available, was critical. 

He wasn't tied to a desk, in fact he was expected to be out and about.

He had a key or access code to any building, commercial or residential, that had a Realtor's lockbox. 

He had a legitimate reason to run background checks on potential 'clients'.

He was expected to 'prospect' properties, which gave him a reasonable excuse if he was inadvertently discovered in almost any building.

As he had told Finch, real estate sales was a cut-throat business. He had discovered he was good at it. Sliding in to close a sale just minutes ahead of another agent was nearly as satisfying as pulling off a complicated op had been. In another existence, he could have been happy. He made good money and would have had time for a life outside of the office. 

But as far as Reese was concerned, he already had a job, one he was just waiting to resume. He knew too much about how the world really worked to ignore the worrisome signs of change his co-workers chatted about in the break room. The newest headlines about another 'terrorist' hunted down would send him out into the night to perch on the roof of the building overlooking Harold's apartment, keeping watch over his friend until the sun rose.

Just like after the Towers had fallen, Reese felt compelled to act. There was a war going on, enemies lurking in the shadows, stealing freedom. Taking a lesson from _The Art of War,_ Reese had used every resource available to him through his new job to start planning their strategy.

Kyle had done his job well, establishing John's cover and quickly accumulating a hefty bank account, which Reese siphoned off surreptitiously into emergency caches hidden for fast, easy access. 

Despite an increased police presence after the Post Office bombing, there was still an active arms trade among the criminal element: men who had no interest in the identity of the purchaser and who would forget any transaction as long as enough cash sweetened the deal. Reese's stockpile of armaments wasn't nearly what he'd had hidden in his loft closet, but what he had access to was sufficient to let him breathe a little easier. And he could always acquire more.

He had roamed the city, learning the terrain; noting how the neighborhoods changed once night fell, who was out on the streets. He spent time carefully investigating the dead zones Root's map had shown; pinpointing several locations they could use to avoid Samaritan's eyes and ears. 

Knowing they'd need inside information and support, he had contacted Fusco, 'accidentally' spilling his own beverage on the detective while he was standing in line at a coffee vendor. Lionel had covered his shock well and the flash of relief in the man's eyes before he'd scowled in irritation had been gratifying. 'Kyle' had been all genuine apologies and had offered his card so the detective could contact him to take care of the dry cleaning bill. They'd met frequently after that, under the guise of a casual business relationship. The information Fusco had provided added to Reese's tactical plan.

Finch was the lynchpin and John hadn't known where the man's head was at yet. It had appeared that Harold was sticking with his plan to walk away from everything and bury himself in a mundane existence. 

Finding him obviously working a Number indicated that he might finally be ready to hear John's arguments. 

The question remained: would he take the risk?

*********************************************************

The waitress bustled back, leaving fresh coffee, a new pot of hot water and tea bag. John once again picked up the conversation. If Harold needed a push, then Reese would supply one.

"You should consider getting a dog." 

Harold looked up at him, eyes wide in surprise. 

"For protection," John continued blandly. He paused, making a show of dunking his tea bag before delivering his next nudge. "If you're going to be walking the streets late at night...carrying a wad of cash." 

Reese knew he had scored a direct hit when Harold's face flushed. Finch fiddled with his napkin, avoiding John's gaze.

"I'm not usually out this late," he explained. "There was... a problem--"

"A problem," John pressed, voice flat, eyes narrowing slightly to convey his displeasure at the attempted evasion. 

Harold took a sharp breath and transformed before Reese's eyes. The older man sat up straighter, squared his shoulders, and glared at John with all the irritation that the defiant Mr. Finch of old would have exhibited. 

"Yes. Something I needed to look into before it became a real issue." Harold settled back at bit into the booth's seat, head held high, eyes sharp. "And I do have a dog," he continued, his tone cold and affronted. "A Belgian Malinois. Well trained. He's all the protection I need." 

John flinched. He had been pushing for a reaction and he'd gotten one. Not exactly what he'd been hoping for, but words were Finch's weapons. If the situation called for it, he could deliver a cutting remark with the same expertise with which Reese thrust a knife, wounding just as deeply. 

Caution screamed for a strategic retreat. 

John shifted abruptly, straightening his overcoat, his resolve suddenly wavering.

He didn't want to back off, and he didn't believe Harold really wanted to push him away again. Living a half-life in isolation was certainly the last thing either of them _needed._ But if Finch couldn't see that...

Harold suddenly leaned forward, eyes downcast, hands cradling his coffee.

"You're right of course," he said quietly. "I should have taken him with me tonight. But he's been a bit...under the weather lately and I didn't want to stress him further. Bear misses his master. You see, he's not really my dog. He belongs to my old partner...a very good friend who had to leave the City unexpectedly." He raised his head to look John in the eye. "I'd never forgive myself if something happened to him."

John held Harold's gaze, throat tightening at the raw emotion on display. He broke eye contact abruptly, reaching for his drink. Silence hung between them as he took a few sips. 

"Belgian Malinois," Reese finally murmured gruffly. He kept his eyes on his cup as he carefully placed it on its saucer. "That's a fair-sized dog. Bear's a good choice for a name."

"I was a bit reluctant to let him get too close when I first met him," Harold continued. "But he quickly became very important to me. I confess, when he's not with me I feel rather lost."

The precious weight of that admission from his so very private friend made John close his eyes for a moment and swallow hard. 

So much revealed, in so few words. 

What he offered back seemed pale in comparison. 

"Always good to have a friend at your back. New York can be a lonely city."

Weak as it sounded to Reese, the simple statements seemed to have the effect he'd hoped for.

"Yes..." Harold's voice broke on the word. He paused, cleared his throat softly. "Yes it can be."

John focused his gaze on the tabletop, stroked the side of his thumb in a slow repetitive motion along a scratch in the surface, choosing his next words carefully. The tension between them had eased and Reese was about to ratchet it up again. 

"This partner you mentioned," John finally asked. "Any chance you two might get back together?" 

Finch didn't answer immediately. His fingers traced the handle of his coffee cup, gaze fixed on the ceramic vessel, ordered mind no doubt ticking down the list of threats stacked against them.

Their enemies were numerous, and frighteningly well equipped. Yet Sun Tzu had written that _unity,_ not numbers was the critical factor when it came to determining who would be victorious in battle. There were a lot of players on the other side and each had their own agenda. They were presenting a unified front now, in the face of the domestic terrorism event Greer had orchestrated, but that alliance wasn't built on trust or shared goals. Sooner or later the fissures in that poorly constructed foundation would start to crack. In the midst of chaos, there would be opportunity.

He and Finch needed to be ready when that opportunity presented itself. 

And that meant _they_ needed to be united. Now.

"I'm not sure that would be wise," Harold finally responded. "Many of the reasons he left still exist."

"Many. That suggests at least some of the obstacles have been dealt with," John countered.

"Unfortunately, the most critical 'obstacles' as you call them, still remain. The ones that have been addressed have been more of a...personal nature." 

John looked up and caught Harold's gaze questioningly. 

"I had...well, if I were a religious man, you'd say I had a crisis of faith. I had...doubts. Not about our partnership or the work we were doing," Harold added quickly. "My concerns stemmed from something I had been responsible for years earlier."

Finch took a sip of his coffee and paused as if he were carefully composing his thoughts before elaborating. 

"When I first started the...project...that ultimately became the basis for our endeavor, I was confident. I thought that I'd foreseen a way to...keep things under control. It quickly became obvious that would be more complicated than I'd envisioned. I couldn't predict...let's just say that there was early evidence that the project was taking on a life of its own."

John raised an eyebrow in surprise. So many unguarded comments Finch had made about The Machine over the years suddenly made sense. When they'd discovered The Machine had moved itself, Harold had been almost wide-eyed in disbelief, but when Reese had asked if the empty warehouse was what Finch had been expecting, he had answered, "It's what I'd hoped." It explained his refusal to communicate with The Machine the way Root did, why he'd restricted its ability to do nothing more than spit out a nine digit number. The ambivalence of his attitude was the result of pride that his creation had exceeded his expectations, and fear that he had created something which at some point might leapfrog out of control, leaving human beings in the dust. 

"It...worried me," Harold admitted. "There was only one person that I could have discussed things with at the time, and even he...well, I've always been a bit ahead of the curve when it comes to technology. I'm not sure I could have articulated my concerns at any rate. They were...nebulous."

Reese knew The Machine was an amazing achievement, even without factoring in the possibility that it had 'evolved' to become sentient. Harold had never really talked about it, but it must have taken years of his life to write and perfect the code for the base programming alone. Then more years to 'teach' it what it needed to look for, to guide it through the process of identifying human behavior. Finch had claimed that human interactions mystified him, yet in order for The Machine to fulfill its primary function and 'notice' the smallest shift in patterns which might lead to identifying a terrorist, he would have had to invent the means for it to 'understand' what it meant to _be_ human. John couldn't even conceive of the complexities involved in trying to write a program that defined the encompassing and confusing concepts of love, hate, fear, passion, greed, and despair.

And he had done it alone. John had done enough digging to conclude that Nathan Ingram had been a good engineer, but he hadn't been in Harold's league. All the breakthroughs, the trials, the problem solving had been Finch, laboring in secret, keeping his worries to himself because he simply didn't have anyone on the same page to share them with. 

Harold looked up and held John's gaze. "And what I was creating was important. Necessary." 

Without hesitation, John nodded in agreement. 9/11 had been a turning point for both of them. Each had offered their skills to try to make the world a safer place. Neither had dreamed that what they'd given so honestly would be twisted and misused. 

"There were others working on their own designs. I could have abandoned my efforts. Let someone else take the lead." Harold's gaze flickered away for a moment. He drew a deep breath, then raised his eyes to meet John's once more. "But I was worried about the direction their efforts would take them. Because of my concerns, I had built in the strongest safeguards I could think of. I wasn't sure...couldn't depend on anyone else working on a similar project to do the same."

Reese wished Arthur Claypool had shared Finch's concerns. If Claypool hadn't been so entranced with the idea of creating the first true artificial intelligence just to see what it could do, maybe he would have paid more attention to the potential horror he was birthing. John might not entirely trust Harold's creation, but he trusted its creator. Finch hadn't been blind to the potential for The Machine's misuse by its human operators. He had made it nearly impossible to tamper with. It was a black box, equipped with self-protection protocols. And he had left himself a back door. 

"Ultimately, I did the best I could and sent it off to be used. It was a tool, and it functioned well. What I had forgotten to factor in was the human element in the equation." Harold shook his head grimly. 

As wondrous as The Machine was, it had exacted a terrible price from its creator. The sorrow in his friend's eyes told John he was remembering the fallout when those in charge of Northern Lights had begun to run their own self-protection routines. 

It had cost Finch the life of a good friend. Ingram had been the figurehead of IFT, the one to accept the accolades, the one on point with the government as The Machine slowly became reality. The man the government thought had created it. The Ferry bombing which took his life had been labeled as a terrorist act, but Reese had worked the inside of black ops too long to take anything at face value. The Machine, or 'Research' as John had known it during his time in the CIA, was too valuable a tool and too controversial to be displayed in the clear light of day. If eliminating Ingram took a potential information leak out of the picture? Reese didn't think the Powers That Be would have blinked an eye at any collateral damage that accompanied the desired result. 

If they had known that Harold was an even greater threat to Northern Lights' secrets, they would have run him to ground. Finch had avoided detection, but as John well knew, survivor's guilt was unescapable. 

Reese remembered the path of self-destruction he had been on before Finch had swept him up. He had been so disillusioned and filled with grief that he not only welcomed death, he'd sought it. Loss had been an enemy that couldn't be conquered. But _he_ had made the choices that had led him to that point. No matter whether those choices had good or bad, he'd had control of his destiny once he had left the CIA.

The Machine had essentially stolen Harold's future. Finch had said it himself that morning on the bridge, moments before he had given himself up to Decima. As its creator, he had been tethered to The Machine from the moment it had gone on line. He lived knowing that anyone he cared about would be in danger. He had tried to guard himself, stay hidden from the government, the authorities, anyone who might be looking, but always in the back of his mind had been the knowledge that a moment would arrive when exposure would be inevitable, and 'payment' would be due. 

He was a dead man walking, existing in a damaged shell, living inside aliases which existed only on paper or as bytes of data in the ether. He spent his fortune--which in another life would have granted him a carefree existence--underwriting a dangerous crusade few knew even existed, and which he had candidly admitted would someday be the cause of his 'actual' death. 

It was no wonder the need to keep himself 'private' was such an intrinsic part of him by the time he and Reese met. 

"The business my partner and I were involved with was a sideline of a development stemming from my original project. If I were to qualify it in financial terms, it was a risky investment. Destined to be short term, with questionable gains. I would have preferred to handle it myself, but it quickly became obvious that I couldn't. So I found someone with the skill set I needed. I fear I treated him more like an employee than a partner or a friend, at least in our early stages. Past experiences had made me...reluctant to share more information about our operation than was required." Harold held John's gaze. "Something I sincerely regret now."

The early days _had_ been difficult. They'd had no real connection then. No trust. Finch doling out scraps of intel, instead of offering the whole picture. It had reminded Reese too much of his CIA handlers. He hadn't realized how frustrated Harold was over his inability to point John in the right direction. And he hadn't understood the man's motivations. It wasn't until they had worked the Virtanen Pharmaceuticals case that Reese accepted his initial impression of Finch as a bored rich man was way off base. The anguish on the older man's face as he talked about the people he had failed to help had made John realize how personally invested Finch was in their Quixotic endeavor.

John shifted slightly in his seat, sliding one long leg forward to rest against one of Harold's under the table. A silent message of reassurance to let Finch know he understood.

"My partner knew there were significant risks involved when he signed on. They didn't seem to faze him. We had some success, some failures. Some nearly unrecoverable losses."

Joss Carter's image flashed into John's mind. Yes, her loss had nearly broken them. They had ultimately managed to move on, each carrying a piece of her courage and dedication in their hearts. There had been other near losses which would have been just as devastating. Reese had been prepared to do whatever it took to get Harold back from Decima. If Grace had been harmed, he would have been consistently aiming for center mass, not kneecaps. It would have been the bloodbath Finch had ordered. Assuming they'd gotten him back, Harold would have been irreparably damaged; by the knowledge that Grace had been hurt because of him, and because he'd abandoned his own moral code and made John a party to his revenge. And if Finch had been killed up on that rooftop? 

"Things changed...became more complicated as other competitors entered the field. The concerns I'd had about aspects of my original project resurfaced. I should have shared them with him then, but we were so busy putting out one fire after another... Still, I should have found a way. Perhaps if I had..." Harold shook his head regretfully.

"In the course of one of our last major...deals, we discovered we'd been...manipulated into a very difficult position. The stakes were incredibly high and there was no 'right' choice that didn't come with its own share of ugly consequences. I insisted we take the high road. Walk away. My partner...my friend, he understood what needed to be done to rectify the situation. Was prepared to do it. But he followed my wishes, instead. He said he trusted me.

"But he shouldn't have." Harold's voice was laced with bitterness. "We were facing a classic moral dilemma. The 'good of the many' type of scenario. But at that moment I wasn't thinking of just the big picture. The action he would have taken would have...damaged my friend in ways that I didn't think he'd ever recover from. That we'd ever recover from. And I...I took the manipulation personally. Saw it as a betrayal, a realization of every fear I'd--"

Finch closed his eyes, took a breath, held it, regained his composure. John remained silent, stunned by his friend's frank, terrifying honesty. 

"I was ready to walk away. And in fact I did. Disappeared for a week. Left my partner and another associate high and dry." 

"You di--" John started to object, but Harold stopped him with a decisive shake of his head. 

"During the week I was gone, I took a good look at our situation. The outlook was less than favorable. I set plans in motion that I'd hoped would assure the best future I could for my partner, my associates, other...people who might get caught in the backwash if we went under."

Harold sighed regretfully. "Plans I'd had ready for years--something else I neglected to share. Few of those came to fruition. My partner had reminded me that just as there are consequences in acting, there are also consequences in _not_ acting. And there were. What followed was a disaster. We were forced out of business."

John tried to process the flood of revelations while Harold took a sip of his coffee. 

"My partner didn't want to call it quits," Finch continued, his voice barely louder than a murmur. "But the risk...I couldn't...wouldn't ask that of him. He had always wondered about the possibility of living a 'conventional' life. Having a family. Children. It was the opportunity for him to have a fresh start..." Harold glanced down. "I just...I wanted him to have the chance.

"When we parted, there were harsh words between us. Intentional on my part. To push him away."

John released the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding in a slow relieved exhale. Reese nudged his leg against Harold's, urging him to look up.

He cocked his head to the side, studied Finch intently for a moment. "So this crisis of faith. Your personal obstacle. You've...resolved it." 

"To an extent," Harold admitted. "Consequences follow intent, no matter how noble. I'm...learning to live with that knowledge. I still have reservations. However, larger events have made me reevaluate my...level of responsibility. And having the opportunity to talk to you has been...helpful."

Harold ducked his head, as if painfully aware how awkward his last words sounded.

Reese didn't find them awkward at all. Finch was always at his most honest when words failed him. John had his confirmation, now it was time to close the deal.

Refilling his cup with tea from the still steaming pot, he asked softly, "do you really think he didn't know?"

Even without looking, he knew he'd caught Harold's attention. He could imagine Finch warily raising his head just far enough to peer over the frames of his glasses. 

"Not everyone is meant for a conventional life," Reese continued quietly. "Some people are meant to do the things no one else can, so _others_ can live it."

Then very deliberately, John slid his cup of tea in front of Harold and took possession of the coffee.

Harold's gaze was fixed on the cup just inches from his fingertips. Reese's offer was literally 'on the table.' All Finch had to do was reach out and take it. 

"Life is about more than just surviving," Reese murmured encouragingly. "Some things...some _people_ are worth the risk."

Harold looked up, his eyes locking with John's. With movements as deliberate as his partner's had been, he closed both hands around the cup. "Yes...Yes they are."

They sat and talked a bit longer, chatting about the weather, which park Harold favored to walk his dog, found they agreed that New York cabbies were just as crazy as ever. Below their surface conversation, an easy comfort. Reese let Kyle's persona slide back into place, pleased that Harold seemed to look past it. He was even more content to see subtle evidence of Harold Finch coming back to life under the pretense of Greg Evans' quiet demeanor. 

Finally, John started to take a sip of the coffee. Grimacing at the cold, bitter taste, he put the cup down, shifting it toward the end of the booth for their waitress to retrieve.

"So," he said, keeping his expression and tone thoughtful but casual, as if he were pondering something inconsequential, "if you and this partner were to go back into business...I imagine it would be difficult, starting over again from scratch."

Harold took a sip of his tea, offered a small, slightly mischievous smile. "Not as difficult as you might think. I have...access to a wide network of options with my current employer. And there are...resources...that were put aside. From our old business. For safekeeping. Just in case."

John uttered a soft huff of amusement. "I'm not surprised. You strike me as a man who's used to thinking several steps ahead."

"And my old partner is very capable." Harold took another drink, obviously enjoying not just the tea, but the comfort of their familiar banter. "He's stubborn enough to have been working toward the possibility of resuming operations all along. I'd hazard to say that he could probably hit the ground running."

Reese answered with a grin.

Their waitress made her final return trip, dropping their check on the table and indicating they could pay at the front register when they were ready to leave. Harold pulled out his wallet, but before he could open it, John held up a hand and reached for the bill. He was leery of anyone seeing the amount of money Finch was carrying. 

"Let me get this. I can write if off on my expense account." He pushed Kyle Sanders business card forward. 

Harold picked up the card and tucked it into the still folded wallet with an appreciative nod. 

John slid out of the booth easily, feeling lighter and more energized than he had in months. They were going to do this. Despite the risk, despite the odds. Maybe it was time to push his luck.

"You should do me a favor and let me take you home," he suggested in the most innocent tone he could manage.

Harold's exit from the booth wasn't accomplished with nearly as much grace. Sitting for so long had obviously stiffened old injuries and new. 

"And how would that be a favor to you?" he asked after he'd finally levered himself to his feet. Snagging the computer bag, he draped his coat over it, then slid the strap onto his left shoulder.

"I don't have a dog. I'd like to meet yours."

Harold hesitated, then nodded, the tiniest of sideways smirks twisting his lip. "I'm sure he'd appreciate the company. And perhaps you could tell me a bit more about this property you've been looking for. It sounds intriguing."

John flashed him another grin and they headed to the front of the diner. Reese stepped up to the register, exchanging a few compliments for the service with their waitress and paying their bill. Finch waited by the door. 

As John stepped away from the cash register the lights in the diner dimmed for a moment, then came back up. 

Reese glanced at Harold, then turned slightly. The green 'active' light on the security camera on the wall had gone dark. A small smirk tipped John's mouth as he turned back to his partner.

Finch offered a barely noticeable shrug, but there was a devilish light sparkling in his eyes.

Obviously he still had a few tricks left. 

They headed out into the night. 

************  
Attributions:

Title: “We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.” --Kurt Vonnegut

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SIG_Sauer_P226

_trompe-l'œil:_ The Art of War

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Art_of_War 

“In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.” Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

Additional quotes and references from various POI episodes

***************


End file.
